


Nothing Left But The Dark

by centreoftheselights



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Afterlife, Canonical Character Death, Demon deal, Demon!Bela, F/F, Hell, mentions of torture
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-12-24
Updated: 2012-12-24
Packaged: 2017-11-22 07:24:18
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,955
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/607295
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/centreoftheselights/pseuds/centreoftheselights
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>After Carthage, Jo finds herself the last place she wanted to end up, but there's a familiar face there to offer her one last deal.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Nothing Left But The Dark

**Author's Note:**

  * For [FaustianAspirant](https://archiveofourown.org/users/FaustianAspirant/gifts).



> Written as a Christmas present for lifeinabox66, as per her prompt.

Jo hasn’t opened her eyes.

She doesn’t need to. She knows where she is from the smell alone – organic and fetid and worse than any crime scene she’s infiltrated or sewer tunnel she’s crawled down. It’s the scent of rot and pain and human viscera, and it’s what brought her lurching back into consciousness, retching until her eyes ran with tears.

If the smell wasn’t enough of the clue, there’s the soundtrack to go with it – screams and whimpers and inhuman howls and, so distantly she could almost be imagining it, faint wet noises which sound horrifically biological. There’s the heat, too, rising up from underneath her feet to drench her in a fine layer of sweat. And, most damning of all, the chains – warm and heavy across her limbs, pinning her upright and spreading her open for whatever wants to carve out a piece of her.

Jo Harvelle is dead, and she’s definitely not passed any pearly gates.

 _God_ , is her first coherent thought – not that He ever listened even before she was damned, but _God_ , _please_ , _don’t_ _let_ _my_ _momma_ _be_ _here_ _too_.

Jo doesn’t know exactly what she did to get here, although she’s committed her share of sins. Whatever it was, though, she hopes it wasn’t simply that they stood against the angel’s apocalypse. Let her mom have made it to Heaven – or better yet, have made it out, have survived their dumbass plan somehow and still be on Earth, still fighting – but _please_ , _anywhere_ _but_ _here_.

Perhaps she should be praying for herself – praying that someone will come for her, or that she’ll wake up short a couple of pints of blood and this will all have been a fevered nightmare. She knows it’s too late for that, though – that smell is enough to convince her this can’t be anything but real. This isn’t some hunt gone wrong; it’s the end of the line, and there is no backup coming to haul her ass out of here.

She knows what happens next.

She’s asked Dean once, just after that mess with War in Colorado. The look in his eyes had told half the story for him, and she made damn sure she never mentioned it again. There have always been stories about the business end of a demon deal, hunters trading the kind of urban legends that even they won’t believe – but she’s got a first hand source.

Eternity is a big word. She can’t wrap her head around it, and she’s not going to waste her time on the infinite. Jo knows she won’t be able to hold out forever, but that isn’t going to stop her from trying.

She’s scared, though. She has known pain before, but this is Hell. This will be worse than she can possibly imagine, and it won’t ever stop, not until she becomes someone she wouldn’t recognise in the mirror. That’s all she has ahead of her, and it’s enough to make her shake against her bonds.

It’s also enough to make her grit her teeth. She’s been afraid plenty in her life, and she hasn’t given up yet. So when the demon comes for her, she’s going to look it in the eye and say “no” – and until then, she’s not going to let it see her cry.

She tries to think of happy times, of all the reasons she needs to stay strong. The memories she needs to hold onto. She remembers an angel drinking shots like water, a boy smiling from the seat of a stolen cement truck, a genius passed out on the pool table, a man walking through the door after a trip away and spinning her around the room, and through it all, always, her mother’s arm around her, their hands wrapped together and holding tight on the trigger –

“Do you want to make a deal?”

Jo’s eyes snap open. “No.”

It takes her a moment to resolve the sight before her. Hell is another dimension; the usual rules of geometry do not apply. There is no floor, per se, and even though she could have sworn she was upright the demon stands over her like gravity is nothing but another inconvenient nicety.

It makes her head spin.

“You haven’t even heard the terms yet. You shouldn’t jump to conclusions; it’s dangerous.”

The demon leans over her, and Jo gets her first good look of its face. It isn’t what she was expecting; not only does it appear human, but the face sparks a memory.

She had been seventeen, old enough to know what she wanted but too young to do a thing about it. The evening had ended with too many shotguns and harsh words – not that there was ever a shortage of either at the Roadhouse, especially not once the night was dragging on and every old grudge and regret from thirty years of hunts was being dragged out onto the counter over a couple of Scotches.

Except that night had been different. The argument hadn’t been between old men, but over a girl, barely older than she was, certainly younger than her ID had claimed. She had come in alone and not spoken to anyone, sitting in the corner with a weary look to rival anyone there. No-one had questioned it; the lifestyle didn’t come with a minimum age requirement.

Then one of the more familiar hunting crowd had recognised her, and taken objection. Called her a thief, said she owed him. She insisted the whole time she didn’t know what he was talking about, but she had let herself be chased away anyway.

The next morning, Jo had found a diamond ring in her pocket with no explanation how it had got there. She had pawned it, and kept the money under her bed, where it would stay until the time finally came to spend it on gas, motel rooms and ammo.

A couple of years later, the name the hunter had shouted had become famous among the Roadhouse’s clientele, an asset or – more usually – a curse for everyone who worked with the occult – but Jo had never breathed a word about her encounter with –

“Bela Talbot.”

Of course, Jo also knows how Bela ended up. Her contract came due and she got dragged to Hell. By now, there will be nothing left of her but a name.

“You don’t remember me, do you?”

“Oh, I never forget a pretty face, Jo.” Bela smiles. “Or a smart mouth. But I’m glad to see you haven’t forgotten me. That should make this go a lot easier.”

“I’m not picking up that knife.”

“Not even to stay whole?” Bela asks. “There are so many ways that I could break you. You can’t even imagine the pain I can give you.”

She lays a hand flat over Jo’s stomach, pressing only slightly, and Jo is filled with the sudden irrational fear that she will reach inside and tear out Jo’s core with her bare hand.

Or is it irrational? Bela’s cold smile and the easy tension in her wrist makes it seem all too possible. After all, this is Hell.

“I could break you in a week,” Bela promises. “And even if I’m wrong, well! We have all the time in the world, sweetie. How do you think this ends for you?”

Jo swallows, and the slightest flex of muscle pushes Bela’s hand harder against her.

“It would be better to save yourself the hassle. Say yes.”

“I’m not torturing anyone!” Jo’s shout makes her cough; her throat is so dry each word burns.

“Did I say that was my price?” Bela asks. “You really must pay more attention.”

She takes a few steps, and suddenly she is standing before Jo, eye to eye.

“You’ve done nothing to deserve this, you know,” she begins. “Good little hunter girl, never sold your soul.”

She strokes a hand over Jo’s cheek; Jo shivers, but she’s chained too tightly to pull away.

“You simply ran afoul of our insurance policy,” Bela explains. “Hellhounds are cursed creatures. One bite, and your soul is earmarked for Hell. Specifically, for the King of the Crossroads.”

“Crowley.” The demon the Winchesters had called her in for.

“You know him?” Bela asks.

“He’s the one who got me into this mess.”

“He’s also the one getting you out of it.”

Bela leans in close to Jo’s ear, every breath she takes brushing cool air across Jo’s cheek.

“You’re an accounting error,” she confides. “And Crowley needs souls. Souls and information.”

Jo twists her head to face Bela as best she can. “What’s the deal?” It sounds resigned, even to her own ears. After a moment, Bela steps back.

“You work for Crowley,” Bela proposes. “You keep fighting Lucifer just like you wanted, and no-one ever breaks that pretty skin of yours.” She smirks. “Unless you want them to.”

It sounds reasonable.

“What’s the catch?”

“Did I mention Lucifer will be trying to kill us all?”

Jo forces a chuckle, even though she nearly chokes on it. “I’ve already died once today. What else?”

“You’d be a spirit. I’m sure you know as well as I do what it gives a ghost its... juice.”

Ghosts run off of anger, hate, fear. It corrodes their personalities. Jo’s seen it a thousand times over, but never thought it would happen to her.

“Am I going to need it?”

“If we wanted muscle, I wouldn’t be here.” Bela’s sarcastic smile is all angles and teeth, just the way Jo remembers it. “Crowley wants you the way you are.”

Jo thinks it over. Her gut knows that the answer is ‘no’, that a demon deal is never worth the price you pay. But that gut won’t be much good to her splattered across the walls.

“Spell it out for me,” she insists. “I want to hear the fine print.”

 Bela sighs. “You transfer your soul to me –”

Jo splutters. “I’m not property.”

Bela’s look is pure condescension. “We’re all owned by someone, sweetie. Or would you rather it was Crowley?”

Jo doesn’t have a good answer to that. As little as she trusts Bela, it’s more faith than she has in the King of the Crossroads.

“As I was saying,” Bela continues bluntly, “you transfer your soul to my possession until I have no more use for you. And in return, I ensure that no avoidable physical harm comes to you without your consent.”

“You’re really keen on that get-out clause, aren’t you?” Jo observes.

“Just looking out for your interests,” Bela insists, but there’s something in the way her eyes trace Jo’s skin that makes her breath catch. “So what do you say? This offer doesn’t last forever.”

Jo doesn’t see what choice she has. “I’ll do it.”

Bela smiles. “You know the tradition, of course?”

Jo nods as best as she’s able to. She doesn’t know how to speak.

“Pleasure doing business with you.”

Bela leans in and presses her lips to Jo’s. It’s careful, yet not at all businesslike, and Jo kisses back like Bela is the last sip of water in these fires.

After a moment, the chains holding Jo vanish, and she sags, unable to hold her own weight. Bela’s arms wrap around her, stronger than they have any natural right to be, holding her upright for long enough to break off the kiss.

Jo expects to be let go, and she is ready to force her legs underneath her, however weak the muscles may be – but Bela’s grip keeps her close.

“Come on, then,” Bela says, as though they’re late for an appointment. “We have work to do.”

It’s under that smile – sly and knowing and unforgettable – that Jo finally finds her feet.


End file.
